Hey Fever
by StarrNight
Summary: After a few late-night Coca-cola scones, England realizes that he doesn't feel normal around America. Something deep inside his chest aches and kind of tickles at the same time...he must be allergic to America. There's really no other explanation. USUK :
1. Super Scones

_Hello! Starry here!_

_This is my first Hetalia fic and I'm so excited about it. It's kind of fluffy drabbly nonsense but it may get more serious later on. Obvi pairing is USUK. Other pairings may pop in and out. _

_Enough with the chatter. Let's get cracking. Enjoy!_

Chapter One: Super Scones

America kept two photos on his bedside table. One, partially obscured by a crumpled up Big Mac wrapper, showed America as a child, holding on to a toy sword with one hand and a teenaged England with the other. The second, more recently taken, focused on the two countries as adults. America towered over shorter, slim England and had draped an arm over his shoulder. England leaned ever so slightly away from the American and, attempting to smile, managed a half-hearted grimace. He was obviously still angry with America for growing half a head taller than himself.

Every night, after running and leaping onto his king-sized bed, America would roll over to the left side of the mattress and look at the photos. It was a comfort ritual-the best days of his childhood life were those when England would be the last face he saw at night and the first face he saw in the morning. Even if he did force him to eat baked beans and porridge when he woke up.

Those breakfasts were not some of America's fondest memories; rather, he would think about the lectures on art and philosophy that England would usually give him over his morning tea. At first they bored the young America so much that he started doing psychic readings on himself with his tea leaves. Gradually, though, as he aged and matured ("matured" being used loosely here), he grew to appreciate the mental hurdles England was guiding him through. "After _De Arte Natande_ was published, Everard Digby went straight to Cambridge and…America, are you listening to me?"

"Yeah, yeah, Digby."

"Like I was saying, he went to Cambridge and spoke with the head…don't give me that look, Alfie, you know I'm only trying to keep you from becoming a complete prat. You're too ignorant and naïve as it is," England explained, replacing his teacup on his saucer.

America frowned and moved the clotted cream around on his scone. "I'm young. I want to go outside and explore…learn for myself, you know?"

"Even as a nipper, you've got to know about your world, Alf. The other countries out there…they're a load of gits and they'll eat you alive if given the opportunity. I know what's best for you. Trust me." England sighed and picked up his cup again. "I think we've done enough for now, anyway."

"Hey, can I go outside?" America jumped out of his chair and hurried to dump his dishes in a basin.

England waved his hand. "Sure, sure. But be wary. You never know when France will jump out at you…oh, 'hey' is not a word, by the way. Surely you can find something better to say."

"I like 'hey' and I'm not scared of old France," America laughed. "Will you come play with me? I found this neat-o pond full of fish!"

"Eh, I really need to…" America's eyes filled with disappointment and England wavered. "I can do that later, actually." he said, with a dismissive shrug. "Show me this pond of yours. Go get your net and maybe we can catch ourselves some fish for dinner!" _I need to get those reports filed...but I can't stand that look on his face. I know the lad's lonely when I'm gone…he doesn't need to be alone when I'm here, too._ He fondly watched the blonde pre-teen gather a bag full of "exploration tools." _Spending more time with America...what harm could that do?_

By the time his own side of these memories had rolled through his head, present-day America was usually fast asleep, clutching his worn stuffed eagle and drooling a bit on his red, white, and blue pillow. Sometimes he still dreamed of the past and expected to be shaken awake for breakfast by England…and woke up unfathomably disappointed when it didn't happen.

Though the breakfast food was undoubtedly better nowadays.

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In a more or less circular room in the attic of England's house there were shelves upon shelves of books about sorcery, both black and white. The multicolored tomes were coated in a thin layer of fine chalk dust from the symbols England labored to draw on the wooden floor when he got the notion to make a spell. Although there were a staggering many to choose from, one book stood out from the rest because of how worn and faded it was. Obviously a favorite of England, its spine had cracked in multiple places and its pages were mercilessly dog-eared; _The Art of Tea_ read the cover. Yes, the tea-encyclopedia was placed in between _Incantations to Impress_ and _Parliamentary Potions_ because, as all Brits know, tea is its own little form of magic. Did your house burn down? Your boyfriend run out and take the cat? Did France touch you inappropriately? Never mind, love, have a cuppa tea, makes everything better.

_Jasmine, Oolong, Pekoe…no, no, no,_ England thought, flipping through the pages of the tea-encyclopedia he'd pulled down and sat in his lap. _Tulsi might work…no, I'm out of that and I don't feel like going to ask India right now…ah! Chai! That's full of stress-busting spices. _The book had solved his problems once again.

What were England's problems? Well, for one, his house smelled like coffee. He'd been perusing tax forms in his drawing room when that bumbling duffer, America, crashed through the front door and came running to find him. "Hey! England! Guess what! Guess what I-WHOAH!" he yelled, tripping over a basket of yarn on the floor (though he'd never admit to it, England secretly loved to knit) and sending the cup of Dunkin' Donuts in his hand all over England's nice cream-colored rug.

England was aghast. "What the bloody hell is this? Look what you've done to my rug! That was an antique!" He abandoned his tax forms and dropped to his knees beside the coffee stains, trying to dab at it with tea napkins.

"Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry! Um, um, how can I help?" America pulled himself to his feet and put his hands to the sides of his head.

"Don't bother," England replied, having located a hand towel nearby. "what did you want? It jolly well better be important."

America grinned, still clutching the empty coffee cup. "Oh, man, is it ever important! Guess what!"

"What."

"I said _guess_, silly."

England exhaled noisily, dabbing the last of the coffee from the rug. "Aliens landed in New Mexico."

"No way, they did that ages ago. I finally did it," America said smugly.

"Did what?"

Here came England's second problem. "I finally made…wait for it…a scone that actually tastes good!" America dropped the backpack he was carrying and began digging through it. "I brought you some! I can't wait for you to taste it! It took me seven and a half months to perfect the recipe but I finally broke through-"

"Wait just a blooming moment, there. What's wrong with my scones as they are?" England straightened up and threw the dishcloth on the table.

America made a gagging face. "They're gross. Duh!"

England took a step back, clutching his chest. "You used to love my scones! You'd have them every morning with clotted cream and marmalade!"

"Yeah, but that was before Toaster Strudels were invented," America explained. He then took a closer look at England's face. "Hey, you're not actually mad, are you? I was just trying to help you…look, your lemon poppyseed scones weren't all that bad…"

England waved away his backtracking explanation. "N-never mind. It's fine, really. Just a little more of my happy history died, is all," he muttered wryly, rubbing his head with the heel of his palm. He extended his other hand to the saddened blonde in front of him. "Let's see these scones of yours."

"Okay!" All of America's enthusiasm had returned. "Here. Taste this and tell me if it isn't the most HEROIC scone you've ever put in your mouth."

A warm, triangular pastry was placed into England's hand and he bit off a bit of the end to chew with consternation. _Damn it. This is delicious. Damn it. _"It's…it's tolerable, I suppose," he concluded, placing the rest of the scone on the table so he could wolf it down once his annoying guest had left.

America whooped and punched the air. "YEAH! It's made with Coca-cola and extra hero! I knew you'd love it! You want me to leave the plate with the rest of them here with you?"

"YES," England said emphatically, then reddened. "I mean, um, if that's what you feel is best. I'm easy."

"Right," America commented, a smirk crossing his face. "I'll do that, then." He picked up his backpack again, put a wrapped plate of scones on the table, and turned towards the door. Right before he crossed the threshold out of England's house, he turned back. "Hey, you know what I call these?"

England scowled and hid behind his back the scone he'd just picked up. "You know 'hey' is not a word! Stop using it!" The scone was burning his fingers. How did it stay warm in America's backpack? What was in that backpack?

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, I call them SUPER SCONES. 'Cuz, you know, I'm kind of a superhero," America winked and ran his fingers through his blonde hair, ruffling Nantucket.

"What?" England yelled at his retreating figure. "Sod off! And don't come back!" As soon as the door was closed, he turned back to the table and stuffed the scone in his mouth. "These stupid Coca-cola scones are…_ace_. I must have really taught him how to cook." Crumbs flew everywhere as he tucked into the pastries. He snickered and then laughed hard as he realized what a mess he was making of himself with the scones. They were so good! America must have been planning on making better scones ever since he was a tyke, that twit! Then, as quickly as his joviality had come over him, it drained away and left him with the familiar empty feeling in the pit of his stomach that he always got when he started thinking about the past. His face flushed and he sat down heavily in a nearby chair, chewing slowly. His third and most pressing problem had emerged.

Was it really the scones? England's mind went down a road that was worn out from the hundreds of times he'd followed this thought process. It couldn't just be the food. That wouldn't conquer someone like America. Why then? Why did things happen the way they did? Was he truly that neglectful? Should he have visited more often? Was it because of the arguments over tea?

He tossed the uneaten portion of the scone back on the plate on which it was brought. _You never told me why, America. Why did you fight me then? What happened to us? You were my best friend. You were…my world. I never told you that, did I? _Red-faced, he stood up and headed for the library to dig out his tea-encyclopedia and find a stress-relieving draught. Maybe he'd add some gin, too.

_I miss you._

00000000000000000000000000000

England and gin are never a good mixture.

Please review! It honestly makes me write faster!


	2. In Which America is a Pansy

_Starry here! Glad to see you again!_

_Thank you sooooo much for the reviews; they made me even more excited to continue!_

_Enjoy, lovies._

Chapter Two: In Which America is a Pansy

The next day found England sitting up in bed, holding his head and moaning. He squinted against the afternoon light pouring in through his window. "Bollocks," He groaned. "what happened?" A buzzing noise suddenly appeared somewhere to his right. He groped around on his bedside table until he located his cellphone. It was buzzing because he had a new text message…actually, he had nine new text messages. He flipped it open. The message was from America and read: **Are u ok? If u don't answer in 2 mins I am coming over 2 check on u!**

With a growing sense of apprehension, England checked the other eight messages. Three of them were more worried texts from America, asking if he was okay. One of them was from China and said: **Take over some of my snacks. I guarantee your feelings will be returned, aru!**

Two of were from France. The first one read: **You sicken your big brother with your cowardice! If you would stop being a ninny and just talk it out this would all be resolved! A lover is like a kitten-good food, affection and communication are all it needs to flourish. **_What is he talking about? _England wondered. _And why is he calling ME a coward?_

France's second text read: **P.S. A lover is also like a croissant. Both taste best smothered in butter and honey! **That was the typical French nastiness England expected.

The second-to-last text was from Russia. It said: **Its ok England. No matter what happens you can still become one with Mother Russia, da! **Oh bleeding hell.

The very last text (meaning the one he'd received first last night) was from America again and said this: **Im so sorry England…but I cant explain it 2 u. I dont know how u would react. Btw are u drunk? Are u gonna b ok? Should I come check on u?**

All of these texts startled and alarmed England. What in the world had he done last night? What was America unsure about? Why had he been texting China and Russia? And why _France_ of all people? Looking over the texts again, England slowly remembered how yesterday he had started drinking tea but soon added gin to it. The ratio of tea to gin had gotten lower and lower until he ended up drinking a teacup of straight gin. That would explain the headache. His memories completely disappeared about halfway through aforementioned teacup of gin and he had no recollection of anything that happened afterwards. _Blimey. I feel awful._ He laid back down on his pillow and put his arm over his eyes to block out the sunlight.

He had succeeded in partially falling asleep again when he was shocked out of his stupor by a bone-shaking crash from elsewhere in the house. Startled, he fell out the bed and onto the cold wooden floor, the temperature of which bit his skin like ants. Loud footsteps rushed up to his bedroom door. England only had time to turn his head towards the door before it was kicked in. "ENGLAND!" America bellowed, throwing himself through the now open doorway. "England! Engl-oh! There you are! I got so worried after you texted me last night!" The tall dark blonde worked his way around England's bed towards his comrade. "When you didn't reply this morning, I thought you'd…uh…you'd…" he trailed off into nothingness.

England shakily pulled himself off the floor and looked up at his intruder groggily. America's face was gradually turning an unflattering scarlet and he was staring intently at the wall while cupping his chin in his hand. "You thought I'd what?" Only when England succeeded in standing up straight and was hit by a draft from the open door did he realize that he was completely starkers, save for a pair of old argyle socks.

_Oh bugger._

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

America was still flushed when England entered the drawing room half an hour later, this time fully clothed. "Er, sorry about that. I…you know," England muttered. "Rough night." America nodded and laughed nervously. The two men stood and avoided each other's eyes for a minute or so. "So, er, what exactly did I text you about last night? I apparently deleted all of my sent messages so I can't read what I said."

Just as the last of America's flush drained away, it sprang right back up into his cheeks. "It was just a lot of drabble," he replied, scratching his head. "don't worry about it."

His distinct discomfort did not escape England's notice. "No, really, I want to know what I said, even if it was a load of waffle." A pause. "I apparently sent something similar to the other Allies, too." He looked closely at his friend to see his reaction.

Just as the Brit had feared, America's unease grew with those words. "Did you? Um. Well. I guess you'll hear about it sometime…you just sorta rambled about the past a lot…and you apologized for being gone so much when I was a new country. And…well, that was the majority of it, anyway." He kept his gaze firmly fixed on the floor.

Sure, England may have been gone for a large portion of America's childhood, but the two had been around one another long enough to recognize certain nuances. England could tell that America wasn't lying, but also that he wasn't telling the whole truth, either. The slightly nauseated feeling in the pit of his stomach (probably from last night's gin) suggested that he didn't really want to wangle out the rest of the story lest he suffer some sort of deep shame. "Right," he replied. _That doesn't quite match up with the replies I got from the other countries. Did I say the same things to them or did I say something different?_ "Say, you wouldn't happen to have spoken to any of the other Allies, would you?"

"No, why?"

"I was just wondering if I said the, er, same things to them."

"Did they reply to you?"

"Yes."

"What'd they say?"

England fidgeted a bit. "Nothing major."

"Let me see their replies and I'll guess at what you said," America said, holding out his hand. "I've been around your drunk self enough to know."

Looking at the outstretched hand, England suddenly got the intense desire to never, ever let America see the other countries' texts. Especially France's. Damn France. "A-actually, I think I'm alright not knowing, really. Ignorance is bliss. You ought to know that," England added, feeling the need to take the mickey out of someone. "I feel dreadful, anyway. I think I'll go have a kip."

He turned towards the door but was stopped by America. "I really think I should stay with you. I mean, someone's gotta keep you from the gin, right?"

England was surprised. "Well…it would be nice to have some company…" America wouldn't have been his first choice, however. Maybe someone quiet, like Japan. "but don't you have things to do today?"

"Naw, the only thing I was planning on doing today was watching this really scary movie that just came out over at my place. It's called _Demon Spawn from the Grave 2_." He shivered, then snapped his fingers. "Say! That's perfect! You can come on over to my place and watch the movie with me! I'll keep an eye on you and you can make sure I don't get attacked by monsters!"

England's interest plummeted. He'd watched enough horror movies with America to know how ridiculous he acted when scared. "Not ruddy likely."

"Aw, please? It'd be so much fun!"

"Absolutely not."

A mischievous gleam appeared in America's eyes. "I made some more scones. They're still fresh."

England stiffened.

"Mmm, Coca-cola goodness!" America continued.

Damn this yankee and his carbonated beverages!

"If you don't come over I guess I'll have to eat them all myself. I probably won't ever make any more if that happens," America said with a sideways glance.

"FINE," England grumped. "I'll go if it means that bloody much to you."

America tried to fist-bump England, but was rebuffed and fist-bumped the air instead. He draped his arm around England's shoulders, much to the latter's dismay. "We're gonna have a great time, I mean it. We can make popcorn and have a pillow fight and-"

"First, don't touch me," England said, shrugging off America's arm. "Second, I need to go take an aspirin. I'll be back in a jiff; for heaven's sake, don't touch, break, or spill coffee on anything while I'm gone." With that, he flounced off to his bedroom and slammed the door.

America stood in his wake, a mixture of disappointment and amusement on his face. "You do that, England. You're always so polite, you know!" He half-yelled towards the doorway through which England had disappeared. "Such a pleasant guy to be around!" _Geez,_ he thought. _Just when I thought I'd made a breakthrough._ _Sometimes I don't think Arthur will ever change._

Late that night, rain had begun to fall. The drops on the window made a soothing pit-pat sound that England listened to while looking around at the house's décor. He hadn't properly been to America's place in decades upon decades. "You're going to love this movie! I've heard it's one of the scariest ever made!" America, holding a full bowl of popcorn, knocked some comic books off of a couch cushion and plopped down next to England. "I'm so excited!"

"I bet you are." England replied dryly, taking a scone from a plate on the coffee table between the couch and the big-screen television. This was going to be a right nightmare.

An hour and forty-five minutes later, England was slumped over on the side of the couch, holding his head in his hand. America was nearly in tears of terror beside him. "No! Never go in the dark room! Why don't you people listen to me?" He moaned, covering his eyes with his hands, but peeking out from between his fingers. England rolled his eyes. These American movies were so predictable. "OH MAH GAWD, IT'S RIGHT BEHIND YOU!" America screeched, throwing the rest of the bowl of popcorn all over himself.

"PUT A SOCK IN IT!" England yelled at the squealing American. "That 'demon spawn' is so _obviously_ computer-animated I can't stand it. Not to mention the protagonists in this movie are the thickest idiots I've ever seen."

Despite this criticism, America grabbed a couch pillow and wouldn't let it go until the movie was over. "Gosh, that was fantastic," he laughed, wiping tears from his eyes. "I never want to go to a graveyard again. Did you like it, England?"

England shrugged. "It was alright. I've seen better and I've seen worse." He watched America start to pick up the scattered popcorn and reached over to help. His hand brushed the other man's a couple of times, which inexplicably irritated him. After the dishes were put away, he brushed crumbs off his jacket and turned to America. "I'm going home now."

America blanched. "You can't go home now. Did you just see the same movie I saw? I'm never going to sleep after that if I'm alone! No!"

"What?" England was taken aback. "I can't sleep here. That'd be…that'd be really strange! You're not allowed to be scared, anyway, aren't you supposed to be some sort of hero?"

"Demon spawn like the taste of heroes! Please, England, please stay! Honestly, I'm terrified…" He clasped his hands, begging.

England opened his mouth to say no again, but made the mistake of looking into his former colony's blue eyes. Those were the same eyes that first peered at him through a thicket of pussywillows, the eyes that chose him over France, the eyes drenched with fear when he was found on the floor this morning…the eyes that still hid whatever he had texted last night. Memories of a younger America begging him not to leave appeared in his head. It had always broken his heart to walk out on America, even when he knew he absolutely must. A rush of compassion softened England. "Fiddle sticks. Alright, I'll stay with you until you fall asleep, but I won't sleep over. I'd like to sleep in my own bed, please and thank you."

Instantly he was swept up in a massive hug. "You're the best! I'll go get ready for bed." America skipped off towards his bedroom, leaving England confused by his own decision.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"Don't worry. I'll fall asleep as quickly as I can," America promised, snuggling under his covers in the darkness. He was clad in a light t-shirt and boxer shorts printed with dinosaurs. Nestled among red, white, and blue pillows, he certainly looked comfortable. England, fully clothed, lay on top of the comforter beside him. "Just like old times, huh?" America asked.

England glanced over at him in the dark. "Yeah, something like that. I hope you don't kick in your sleep like you used to. That hurt."

"Naw. I'm pretty sure I stopped that."

"Good." Silence hung heavy for a while.

America's breathing deepened and slowed until he suddenly jerked and knocked the man beside him with his foot. The action seemed to awaken him from his light sleep. "Oh, gosh, I'm sorry, England…I guess I just can't feel it when I'm alone! Sorry, sorry, sorry."

"Don't work yourself up. It wasn't as bad as it used to be. You used to really give me a thump, but that was more like a nudge," England replied. America accepted his words and closed his eyes again, turning over to face England. He usually kicked backwards in his sleep, so if he turned this way he couldn't kick the Brit. England was unprepared to see America's face as he fell asleep and felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him, as if he were spying on something private. He watched the other's breathing grow deep and steady again and found himself unconsciously breathing in rhythm.

England didn't want to breathe rhythmically with America. He thumped himself in the head with his fist, which startled America and prompted him to wiggle around sleepily until he found a cool spot on his pillow. Some silky dark-blonde hair fell into his eyes and was ruffled by his exhalations. After watching this for a while, England felt compelled to move the hair and so smoothed it back from America's face. It was shockingly soft and fine. How could anything on this crazy man be that delicate? "You may be a gormless nosey parker sometimes, but you're alright, really," he muttered.

To his surprise, America spoke back. "You say such weird words," he said without opening his eyes.

England was embarrassed that America had heard him. "They're not weird," he replied tartly. "You've just gone and turned the Queen's language into a dog's dinner, you have. Now shut up and go to sleep already."

"Alright. Goodnight, Art."

England did a double take when he heard that. He hadn't been called that in…over a century! America hadn't called him Art since…since _that_ night. He mumbled a 'goodnight then' and lay perfectly still for what must have been an hour or so until he was absolutely sure America was asleep. He even whispered America's name to see if he'd respond. When the soundly sleeping man did not, he slid off the bed and stretched. Time to go home.

On his way out the door, a gleam of light from back inside the room caught his eye. He crept back into the room and followed the gleam to two pictures on the small dresser beside America's bed. With unsteady hands, England picked up the pictures and held them up to catch the light from the doorway. They were both of he and America, one when America was small and they still held hands, and one taken only a few years ago. America kept these beside his bed? England was touched and taken aback. He had always thought America tried to forget all about the pre-Revolutionary War years and the days they spent together. As he held the photos in his hands, Something New materialized deep in England's chest. It was fluttery and cold, but painfully hot at the same time. It caught his breath as if he'd missed a step while going down stairs. He put the photos back quickly and hurried to the door.

He slipped out into the fine, slanting rain and headed for home, aware that this Something New wasn't fading as he walked away from America's house. He wasn't even sure if it _was_ Something New. As a matter of fact, it kind of felt like Something Old that had lain dormant inside him for a very long time.

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_Review if you love USUK! I know I do. Oh buddy._


	3. In Which England is a Nitwit

_Starry here!_

_Ahhh! I love this chapter and I hope you do too!_

_Just to be clear, the narration in bold is what happened in the past. I put the date on it, but just in case you miss it, know that it's the past. _

_Thanks so much for reading and, as always, please review!_

Chapter Three: In Which England is a Nitwit

For the second time in two days, England awoke feeling abnormal. Many different countries used many different words to describe him, but _jittery_ had never been one of them. This morning, however, he awoke with a nervous energy coursing through his body that not even his morning tea could soothe. He went for a walk through the countryside, but still could not settle down. It was as if he needed to run for miles and miles until he couldn't stand up anymore, but at the same time he wanted to sit on a windowsill and stare into the fall sky until night fell again. He was excited and sad, pessimistic but hopeful…he was _apprehensive_ for some reason he couldn't name.

"America," he muttered. "I bet he put something rotten in those scones of his, like caffeine or marijuana or something. That sounds like something he'd do." Now that England had pinned his strange feelings on something, he resolved to suss out the veracity of his fears and fix the problem. He couldn't go on feeling like this…he'd never accomplish anything! Blimey, he felt like a bloody schoolgirl!

OoOoOoOo

The front door was locked when England arrived at America's house. That was unusual because America could normally be found playing video games around this time in the morning. _Even if he's having a lie-in, he usually leaves the door unlocked, _England thought. Just then, an almighty THWACK resounded from somewhere towards the back of the house. _There he is. What the devil is he doing?_ England walked around to the rear and went in the gate that led to America's forested backyard.

Sure enough, America's shining hair could be seen in the tree line. He was wearing a pair of goggles and holding a large axe, which he lowered as England approached. "Hey, England! What are you doing here?"

"I came to ask you a question…are you chopping firewood?"

"Sure am!" America replied. "And I'm almost done. Can you hold on for two more minutes?" England nodded and America positioned the last two chunks of wood on the giant stump in front of him, then deftly chopped them in half. That done, he took off his eye protectors and wiped his forehead with his arm. "What did you want to ask?"

England was still looking at the pile of firewood. "Why are you cutting firewood? Your house has central heating. You don't need a fire."

"Well, yeah, but fires are kinda cozy in the winter, aren't they? Also, I was thinking about exporting some of it to the smaller countries who don't have as much space to grow trees. They'd probably like fires in the winter, too, and they might not have central heating," America explained. England was just thinking how unusually thoughtful America was being when the North American nation slid the tshirt he was wearing over his head. "Besides, chopping wood really tones your arms!"

Stuck up yankee! Even so, England couldn't help but agree. Shirtless in the sunlight, America's tanned skin glowed with the exercise and his muscles were pulled taut. Without his glasses, he looked almost like he did before…before things changed. "Eh," England stammered, blinking at his grinning companion and wondering why in the world he'd just lost the power to form coherent sentences.

"Stop staring at my pecs, dude. I know they're great and all, but, really…" America laughed as England spluttered indignantly. "I'm just messing with you. Seriously, what did you want to ask me?"

"I wasn't looking at your pecs, you cheeky git," England clarified, fighting to put his thoughts back in order. "I was, er, oh, right! I was wondering what you put in those bloody scones that has scrambled my brains so badly!"

America made his way into his house and stood in front of the kitchen sink. "What do you mean?" He asked, rubbing soap into his hands.

"I mean I haven't been able to think straight since I woke up this morning. I'm all…oh, never mind what I feel, I just want to know if you put something caffeinated or drug-related in last night's scones. Be honest, now."

"No, I didn't," America replied, drying his hands now. "I mean, Coca-cola has caffeine in it, but I only used flavoring, not the real stuff, so there was no caffeine present. And don't be stupid, I didn't put drugs in them. If I had drugs here, I wouldn't waste them on you!" He laughed, heading towards his bedroom. "I'm gonna get undressed so I can shower."

This answer didn't entirely satisfy England. Was he not worth America's drugs? _What? What are you thinking, England? You don't want anything of America's, let alone his illicit substances!_ He followed America into the room. "But that doesn't make any sense. I KNOW something is wrong, but I can't…"

He paused because America had pulled off his jeans and was standing before him clad only in a pair of boxers. A light dusting of sweat still clung to his skin, reflecting the light and making him radiant. If England didn't know any better, he'd almost say America was…"What?" The mostly-naked man asked.

"PUT SOME BLOODY CLOTHES ON, YOU WANKER. I DIDN'T RAISE YOU LIKE THIS," England yelled, irritated that the twitchy feeling in his chest had multiplied tenfold. He could feel his face flaming as the word _dishy_ came to mind.

America flushed. "I told you I was getting undressed and you still came in here! It's your own fault!" He stomped off towards the bathroom. "And you didn't raise me, by the way. I raised MYSELF!" The door slammed behind him and the sound of the shower running radiated out.

To say that America's last statement was entirely inaccurate would be to lie, and England knew this. Still, hearing it said aloud like that struck a bitter chord in his heart. He sat down on the end of the bed and put his head in his hands and stayed that way until America emerged hot and damp from the shower. He didn't lift his head as America walked past him, rubbing his wet hair with a towel. "Listen," he began in a low voice. "I didn't mean that. I was just…I'm just in a nark today. I'm…I'm s-"

"You don't have to say it," America said, cutting off England's words. "I know you hate apologizing. You don't have to." He pulled a shirt over his head and, now fully clothed, opened his arms. England recoiled slightly but was enveloped in America's arms anyway. The taller man was still warm from the heat of his shower and England could feel it through his own button-down shirt. America's smell was all around him…woodsy with a touch of something warm and homey, like buttered toast. England closed his eyes and slowly brought his arms up around America.

America couldn't believe his senses. England was _here_, in his _arms_. He was actually _hugging him back_. Could this be it? These symptoms England said he was experiencing…could it be that he was finally recognizing what he himself had realized so long ago? "America," England mumbled, making his heartbeat skitter like a mouse in an earthquake.

"Yes?" America said, trembling.

Little by little, England brought his eyes up to meet the other's. "This strange feeling…" America's heart stopped for a second. "I think…I think it's because of you…" Happiness erupted throughout America's body.

But it wasn't enough yet. He wanted to hear England say it out loud. "What do you mean?" He asked on tenterhooks, looking straight into England's hunter-green eyes. Those pretty eyes were framed with long, delicate gold lashes and America ceased breathing so he could hear the answer to his question as clearly as possible.

"America…this tightness in my chest…the way my skin burns when we're together…I think I…I think I'm allergic to you."

America went completely blank. That wasn't what he'd expected. Looking at England's serious face, he suspected that he'd actually found the one country that was even dumber than himself.

Well, damn.

OoOoOo

_**Winter, A.D. 1769**_

**The second-to-last snow of the year had just fallen and England wanted nothing more than hot tea, a good book, and a crackling fire by which to sit. America, on the other hand, had his heart absolutely set on ice skating on the pond behind his house. Ever since the pond had frozen over, he'd been begging England to go skating with him. "Look, Art, it's a beautiful evening! The wind isn't blowing and it's perfect skating weather," a younger America cajoled, leaning on the arm of the chair England sat it. "Come on, strap on your skates and let's go outside!"**

** "No, thank you, it's cold as buggers out there," England replied. "and I'm no good at skating anyway."**

** America pouted. "Art…you _promised_ me last weekend that you'd go with me the next time it snowed. You _promised_."**

** "And I will; just not tonight. I'll go tomorrow afternoon."**

** "No," America wailed. "by then the snow will have partially melted and the pond won't be as safe to skate on anymore. You know the ice gets softer in the daytime."**

** England pressed his lips together in a tight line. "I said no! I don't want to go out tonight! It's cold and I just want to read my book." America had a point about the ice, but surely it couldn't melt that quickly, right? "The ice will be fine tomorrow and I will go with you before the snow is gone."**

** Doubt clouded America's eyes. "Are you sure?"**

** "Yes." **

** "And you swear on your life that you'll skate with me tomorrow?"**

** England stood up and looked into America's eyes. America had hit puberty like an angry fist and grown again from the last time he'd visited. The two men were now equally tall. Although America still retained vestiges of his baby face, he had become muscular and strong. "I promise, Alfred. I wouldn't lie to you."**

** The smile returned to America's face as he stood nearly nose-to-nose with England. "Alright, Art. I believe you." He watched England walk away and burned with happiness that he'd finally grown as tall as the island nation. Nations had ages, yes, but their ages did not usually correlate to their physical appearance and stature. Just look at China! He was older than anyone cared to admit, but he still looked just as youthful as America himself. Because of this fact, nations did not rely on age as a yardstick to measure strength or worth. Instead, they based one's value on one's personality and worldly wisdom. **

** After years and years of looking up at England, America could finally stand tall and look him straight in the eyes. With this new feeling of maturity came a strange new attachment to his "big brother." To be honest, America wasn't really comfortable referring to England as his "big brother" anymore, although he wasn't entirely sure why. It had something to do with the way America hated it when England assumed he needed to protect him, or how much he disliked taking orders nowadays. He desperately wanted to show England that he had grown into a man…into an equal. He wanted to prove that he was someone whom England could look in the eyes and respect, not because he was "related" to him, but because he had turned into a resourceful, energetic nation full of hopes, dreams, and a hunger for adventure. He didn't want to be just a "little brother" anymore.**

** America wanted to impress the slim, blonde, handsome Brit. He wanted it so badly he couldn't stand it.**

** It was about this time that, deep in the back of his mind, a younger America came to terms with the fact that he was falling in love with England.**

OoOoOoOo

_Dun dun dunnn! Review, please! _


	4. In Which Germany's World is Rocked

_Starry here!_

_Oh, I had so much fun with this chapter…I'm sorry it's so long!_

_Thank you SO much to everyone who reviewed. Cookies for you all!_

_ENJOY!_

Chapter Four: In Which Germany is an Even Bigger Nitwit than England

**Back to Present Day**

"You…you can't be serious…right?" America asked apprehensively.

England stood in front of him, looking him in the eyes. "Of course I'm serious. I must be allergic to something about you. There's simply no other explanation for these ridiculous symptoms."

"Symptoms like a tightness in your chest."

"Yes."

"And an elevated heartbeat."

"Right."

"You feel flushed all the time, your stomach gets a little queasy, and you can't concentrate around me."

"Exactly! What, have you heard of this kind of illness before?" England asked, tilting his head to one side.

If America had been a teapot, he would have been whistling, because he was boiling hot. "Yes! I mean, no! You're not sick! You're just stupid!"

"What are you on about? There's no call to be rude," England replied, feeling stung. "I'm just going to have to look this madness up in my medical archives and find a way to cure it, is all."

America got closer to England's face. Their noses were centimeters away from each other. England found himself staring directly into big blue eyes and suddenly felt a bit weak in the knees. "What if you didn't want to cure it?" America asked, deadly serious.

England wasn't sure how to answer. America's face was still close…far too close. "O-of course I want to cure it. If I don't, I…I won't be able to spend time with you."

Another centimeter nearer. "Why do you want to spend time with me?"

So very, very close. England could feel the heat of America's breath on his lips. His eyes closed unconsciously. He swallowed hard and struggled to form a sentence. "B-because…we're friends…"

Just like that, the warmth disappeared. England opened his eyes to find America's back turned to him. His arms were crossed, but England couldn't see his face. "Yeah. I guess you're right," America said softly. "We'll always be…friends." He remained in this position for a moment, then shoved his hands in his pockets. "I've got some work to do, so if you could show yourself out, that'd be great." With that, he left and didn't look back.

oOoOoOo

Consequently, England was out of sorts as he sat in his circular library, poring over various magical texts. "Rude gump," he muttered to himself. "acting like he knows everything about allergies. He knows bugger all about them! He doesn't even realize he's lactose intolerant and he wonders why I can't stand to be in the same room with him after he drinks a milkshake!" He tossed aside the book in his arms and picked up another one labeled _Medicine at Home: The Magical Way_. It too, was useless. "Bloody hell, is there no book that deals with people who are allergic to other people? What am I supposed to do, never see America again?" The thought hurt.

Sitting and staring at the scattered tomes, England had an idea. He reached for a smallish leather book he kept on a lower shelf of one of the bookshelves. _If I don't know the answer myself, I'll just have to find someone who does. What better way to do that than…_"This! Aha!" he yelled, pulling it out triumphantly. The book's title was _Dowsing for Dummies_ and it was covered in dust. "Haven't used this in ages. Let's have a look, shall we?" The instructions were simple enough. You close your eyes, blindfold yourself, perform the spell, follow where the magic leads you, find the person or place that can help you, and Bob's your uncle. Simple enough.

For anyone who doesn't know what dowsing is, it is a form of divination by which you may locate things by magical means. Usually it is used to find water, gemstones, and graves, but this particular book had manipulated the magic to include people and places. The book also subtracted the need for a dowsing utensil, such as a rod or a coin on a string. It was a great book; a steal for only ten pounds at a run-down bookshop.

A cup of tea later, England knelt on the floor with the book in front of him. The incantation was simple and he repeated it over and over in his head as he tied a black handkerchief around his head, covering his eyes. That done, he said the incantation aloud and sat to wait the ten minutes the magic took to start working. Finally, he felt the magic touch his mind gently, like a childhood friend. It tugged his body toward what he could only assume was the door, as his eyes were blindfolded. The reason for the blindfolding was so one could not influence the magic with one's own prejudices against people and places.

The magic led him down the stairs, out the door, and in an unknown direction. He walked and walked, through fields of what felt like heather and down dirt roads. It even led him through a shallow stream, of which he was most disapproving because it got his nice shoes all wet and, for a while, he squelched every time he took a step. _Bloody indiscriminate magic,_ England thought to himself, kicking his feet to rid them of as much water as possible. _Boy, I'd like to see that tosser America's face when he hears that I solves this whole mess with magic. He never believed in my magical skills! This'll show him! _He rubbed his hands together gleefully. _He'll be so impressed he'll promise to do anything I want so I don't hex him. What will I have him do…? _An unbidden image of America folding England into his arms again rose in England's mind. A jolt ran up his spine at the thought and he tripped over something in his path. That something shattered noisily.

"WHO'S THERE? ITALY, IF YOU'RE IN MY GARDEN AGAIN, I'M GONNA BLOW YOU TO VALHALLA! NOT EVEN GERMANY CAN SAVE YOU THIS TIME!" A voice yelled from nearby. England recognized it as Switzerland and got a second jolt, this time of fear. Switzerland was notoriously trigger-happy. He shuffled along faster, which was hard because he was very, very blind.

A second voice, sweet Liechtenstein, piped up. "Um, brother, maybe you should reconsider taking the gun with you…it could be someone who's lost…let's think of alternatives to shooting them…"

Switzerland spoke again. "Turn your head when I find him, Lie. I don't want you to see the blood."

"Eh…brother…"

"Look, he broke my other Edelweiss pot! ITALY I'M GONNA KILL YOU!"

"Brother, please put the assault rifles down…"

England shuffled even faster. Switzerland was livid, and that meant impending death. The footsteps behind him grew louder and he broke out into a full-on panicked run. The magic led him on until he slammed into a door. Still worried about Switzerland, he opened it and threw himself inside. Someone shrieked and England followed the sound until he bumped into something quite solid. The magic sparked inside his head and then faded, letting him know that he'd found what he was looking for. "Found you!" He cheered, pulling off the blindfold as he stood up. Once the blindfold was off, he found himself staring directly into Germany's ominous face, as well as the barrel of a handgun.

"England? VAT IS THIS?" Germany roared.

England backed up slowly. "Er, I…'ello Germany…fancy seeing you here…"

"This is my house," the large man replied. "and you have scared Italy. Vy should I not shoot you now?" Indeed, Italy peeked out from behind Germany, clinging to his coat.

England, who had been sweating because of his run from Switzerland, began to sweat even more. "I, er, I come in peace…please do not shoot me…" Germany slowly lowered his gun. England breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks…I only just escaped from Switzerland…he tried to shoot me too."

Italy peeked out from behind Germany again. "Ve, I was there yesterday and he tried to shoot me too! He tries to shoot me a lot! I don't know why, ve. Except for that time I broke one of his Edelweiss pots…but it was so pretty I couldn't help but touch it! Germany, can you get me some Edelweiss? It's so soft! Ve!"

Germany looked down at Italy and colored a bit. "…If that's vat you vant, I suppose I can find some for you…" he muttered, then looked back at England. "Now, tell me vat you are here for so we can get this over vith."

Suddenly England saw himself as rather ridiculous and felt disinclined to tell the burly German that he'd followed a magical spell to his house so he could tell him he was allergic to America. Still, he knew he had to do it for America, who, after all, couldn't survive too long without being checked up on by England. "I, er…I came to ask your advice about something."

"Vell? Vat?"

"I'm…I have become allergic to America and I was told by…reputable sources…that you could help me," England said quickly, as if saying it faster would make it sound less silly.

Contrary to England's expectations, Germany looked intensely interested. "Tell me of your symptoms," he said.

Pleasantly shocked, England tilted his head and thought hard about his situation. "Well, it started a long time ago but it reached its maximum severity last night. Whenever I'm around America I feel…dizzy, confused, flushed…and I can not concentrate for anything. I also have difficulty breathing…like something inside my chest tightens and I get quite nervous. It hurts, but it's sort of…well, ticklish at the same time."

Germany's eyes widened. "Italy!" He yelled, to England's surprise. "Make me some pasta!"

Italy appeared from behind Germany, starry-eyed and grinning, clasping his hands together. "Ve? Did I hear you right? Have my dreams come true? You actually want me to make you pasta? Not your usual sausages that taste like poo? Pasta?" His curl shook.

"Yes! I crave pasta! Go make me pasta!"

"PASTAAAA!" Italy sang, skipping to the kitchen.

Germany watched him go and then beckoned England closer. "I had to get him to leave so I could talk to you privately. Listen closely. I am experiencing the same symptoms as you! I thought no one vould understand me! I must have developed allergies to Italy!"

England gasped. "This could be a pandemic! All of us countries are becoming allergic to each other! This is bloody horrific!"

"No…just Italy," Germany replied after reflecting for a second. "that's it for me. Are you allergic to anyone else?"

"Well, no, actually. Just America." The two stood in silence for a moment. "So tell me when it started happening to you."

Germany scratched his chin and thought. "Vell, it sort of happened gradually. I mean, I alvays vake up and he's in my bed. At first I vas very annoyed with him, but then I became used to it. He never vears clothes either. It's unsettling. Then I started to feel…anxious around him. Like I'm constantly itching when he's nearby."

"Right-o. Go on."

"And, vell, same as you, I can not concentrate near him! I feel feverish; I'm hot and cold at the same time. I vant to run around and also daydream at the same time. I-" he stopped because Italy had re-entered the room. "Yes, Italy?"

Italy jumped on Germany and wrapped his arms around his neck. "Nothing, I just missed you, ve!" Germany's face reddened deeply and he looked at England as if to say _see?_ He awkwardly patted Italy on the back, but his face betrayed the caring inside. "What are you and scary England talking about?"

"Nothing!" Germany yelled, embarrassed. "I vas still deciding vether or not to shoot him!" England unconsciously took a step back.

"No!" Italy wailed. "No violence while I'm making pasta! It makes the pasta bitter!" He looked into Germany's eyes. "Promise me you won't shoot him until after the pasta."

"I promise," Germany mumbled.

"Okay," Italy said, pacified. He skipped back to the kitchen, calling out, "You can have some pasta too, scary England! Ve!"

Germany watched until he was out of earshot. "See? See vat he does to me? I lose my mind around him!"

A terrible, terrible suspicion had begun to form in England's mind. The seed had been planted when Italy reappeared and had bloomed into a bud of intuition. Cold crept through his veins as he formed the next question. "Say, how would you feel if you woke up one morning and Italy wasn't there?"

The blonde man was surprised. "Vasn't there? That's happened so rarely…I vould…I vould be very vorried about him. Something bad might have happened to him. But that must just be because my body has grown used to alvays being around his allergens."

England's bud of intuition grew into a flower of premonition. "Okay. Now say you went to check on him but he wasn't in his own bed either."

"I'd immediately start a search for him."

"And then say you found him…in Spain's bed."

"I'd-" Germany stopped. "Vith…vith Spain?"

"Yes. Sleeping beside Spain."

"Vell…I'd be glad he vas safe…but…" his hands curled into fists by his sides. "he shouldn't be vith Spain. Spain can't take care of him...Italy's too kind…he needs protection…I only feel safe if he's vith me. I vould take Italy avay from Spain," he said decidedly.

England smiled dryly. "But say he _wanted_ to stay with Spain? He didn't want to come back with you."

Germany's face drained of all color and he looked like he needed to sit down. Clearly he'd never considered this scenario before. "Vy vould he _vant_ to stay vith Spain? He's…he's alvays vith _me._ No. No, Italy vould never…" He stopped and rubbed his face, then rested his chin in his hand. "I don't vant to think about this anymore."

He and England stared at each other for a moment as England's blood froze in his veins. His flower of premonition was a grapevine of certainty and it was bearing fruit. "Germany…I don't think you are allergic to Italy."

"Vat? Vhy? I must be."

England used the toe of his boot to fiddle with a piece of dust on the floor. "Don't you think you…don't you think you _like_ Italy?"

"Of course I like him. He's annoying and useless…but I don't mind that much."

"No, no…I mean…have you stopped to think that maybe…you're _in love_ with Italy?"

Just at that moment, Italy waltzed into the room carrying two bowls of steaming fettuccini. "Look, Germany! I made you pasta just like you wanted and I even put some of your super-icky sausage in the sauce! Do you _love_ it, ve?" He placed the bowls on a nearby table and ran back to his companion. "Eat it while it's hot, Germany. I promise you'll _love_ it because I made with extra love of my own, just for you, ve!" He grabbed Germany's hands and gave them a squeeze.

Germany hadn't moved since England voiced his suspicions. Now he looked at Italy, paled even whiter, then flushed dark red. "Italy…" he mumbled, noticing their clasped hands.

"Ve?"

"Italy…" Germany's hands were shaking. "Don't ever sleep in Spain's bed, okay?"

Italy was nonplussed. "Ve?"

"Just…please. Stay out of Spain's bed. And all the other countries' beds too. Please."

Italy was still confused, but nodded. "Alright. I'll only wake up in your bed from now on if it makes you happy, okay?"

A smile broke the dam of Germany's face and happiness flowed like a waterfall. "Okay. Italy…let's eat your pasta now." The smile Italy gave him in return was as bright as Canada's Aurora Borealis and lit the room like the night sky.

Unable to help smiling, England slipped out of Germany's house and began the walk back home. Hopefully he could avoid Switzerland this time. He chuckled to himself, glad that he was able to play a part in causing Germany to acknowledge his feelings. Even so, he still hadn't solved his own problem. It was unlike his magic to lead him to the wrong place…had he said the spell wrong? Why wasn't Germany able to help him? He shoved his hands in his pockets and gritted his teeth as a cold wind swept past him.

As he walked, he reflected on all that had passed between he and the strong Germanic country. Germany must have been really thick to not see that he was very clearly in love with Italy. It was so obvious. All he needed was to consider what his life would be like it Italy weren't in it…for instance, if Italy were with Spain, or Prussia, or France. Ugh. France. France was always after everyone. He'd made moves on every country out there, even Sealand. Bleeding Sealand didn't even count as a country. Why, France had even tried to put the moves on America before.

England stopped.

What if England went over to America's house and couldn't find him? What if he looked and looked but he was nowhere nearby? What if he found him…with France? England would tell him to leave of course, because France was a dangerous old frog!

…what if America didn't want to leave?

...what if America...and France...

...America...

England convulsed suddenly with a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.

_oOoOoOo_

_Ahhhhhhhhhh I'm so excited about the next chapter!_

_What did you think of GerIta? And Switzerland? I adore Switzy._


	5. England Unwillingly Reconsiders Things

_Starry here!_

_Ooooooh the plot thickens!_

_Don't forget that the narration **in bold** happens in the past!_

Chapter Five: England Unwillingly Reconsiders his Diagnosis

_Oh, no. Oh no, no, no. Please, no. Surely not. Not that. Anything but that. _England had begun running again and had almost reached his house. The sun had set while he was in Germany's house and dusk was fast approaching. _Not with America…_he reached his house, kicked open the door, and ran inside. Quickly he prepared himself a cup of tea and took it with him to his bedroom. Tea in hand, he curled up in his blankets and stared ahead, not really seeing anything.

America. Surely not. That man was…so noisy and…so full of himself all the time. He was _talented_ at trouble and at offending other people. He couldn't keep his hands to himself, even as a young country! He was always exploring places…discovering new things…he couldn't just sit still like a normal person. America was friends with aliens and had massive debts and ate too much. Nothing was right about him! Everything that England disliked was descriptive of America. England just couldn't be in…love…with that _loud git_.

Just as he'd think that, images of America with France, or Seychelles, or anyone else would come to mind and England's stomach would hurt. He couldn't convince himself that the pain was from the tea, as much as he wanted to. There were so many variables to consider…how a relationship like that would affect the world conferences, what sort of toll it would take on he and America's friendship, what would happen if the relationship became serious…England's blood pressure rose as he considered, for the first time, a scene where he and America were more than just friends.

His heart leaped in his chest when he remembered how close America had come to his face earlier that day. America must have known! He must have known that England had…feelings for him. That's why he became distant when England said he was going to find a way to take away the feelings! But wait…

Wait.

Did that mean…did that mean that…America had those feelings, too?

Not a chance. America was bright and sunny and full of enthusiasm for the world. He had bad ideas sometimes, but he always put his full effort into whatever he attempted. Just like his land, his heart was spacious and open. As Japan could attest, he was certainly socially ignorant a large portion of the time. Even so, he never acted with ill intent; he acted in the way he figured to be most appropriate, no matter what anyone else thought.

Light had long faded from the bedroom as the stars peeped out of the sky and England was forced to light the lamps. The teacup lay long empty on his nightstand, yet still he hunkered down in his covers, ruminating. The more he considered it, the more he realized how much he actually admired the North American country and the less reasons he could find for America to return his feelings…whatever they were. He still hadn't pieced together his own intentions yet.

Where his covers had once been his safe place, they now felt like his prison. England freed himself from them and put on his shoes. After returning his teacup to the kitchen, he opened the hall door and took out his coat and an umbrella. Sitting and thinking was accomplishing nothing. He needed to figure this out before it got worse. It was time for action! …maybe America had rubbed off on him more than he had realized.

oOoOo

** Winter, AD 1769**

** Teenaged America jumped on England's bed the next morning, startling the young Brit out of his sleep. "Come, on, Arthur! It's time to go skating! Wake up!" He shook England's shoulders until he opened his eyes. **

** "Bloody…bleeding…what the devil are you on about? Skating?" England rolled over and looked at the clock, which read 7:00 AM. "Oh, bugger, Alfred, it's seven o'clock in the morning and it's Sunday…can't you go back and sleep a bit longer?"**

** "No way! It's still cold enough outside that the ice will still be safe to skate on, so we have to go now before it melts. Come on, wake up!" **

** England groaned. "No. I'll get up in a few hours, I'll make us breakfast, and then we will go skate. The ice won't hurt you! You're too big to be a ninny now." America looked at him for a few minutes, then shrugged. "Now, come on. See if you can sleep for a few more hours." England sleepily held out an arm, inviting America to get under the covers. America acquiesced, crawling under the covers and snuggling next to England. Both fell back asleep and didn't reawaken until nearly 10:30.**

**oOoOo**

**Back to Present Day**

England could clearly see his breath as he walked briskly towards America's house. He wrapped his arms around himself for warmth and wondered vaguely what America was doing at that moment. Maybe he was busy and wouldn't have time for England. Would that be a good thing or a bad thing? England couldn't decide.

The nervousness in the pit of his stomach boiled higher the closer he got to the big house and, by the time he reached the front door, was making him feel quite sick. He lifted his hand to knock, stopped, walked away a few steps, returned to the door, and timidly rapped on the smooth wood. Every second of silence was an eternity. _What am I even doing here? What am I hoping to accomplish?_ He chewed the tip of his thumbnail nervously, noticing small details about America's house that he'd never taken the time to notice before, like how someone had drawn stars all around the house number plaque in gold sharpie and how the welcome mat said "Aloha!" in pretty, flowing script. There were pots on either side of the door that obviously held flowers in warm weather. England was surprised because he had never seen America as gardener type.

After what felt like his entire lifetime over again, England saw a figure approach through the glass window in the door. America swung the door open and lifted his eyebrows when he recognized his visitor. "England? What are you doing here?"

England flushed and looked to the side and towards the ground. "I just…I just wanted to see you is all. That alright with you?"

"Sure. I mean, wow, I'm surprised! Come on in!" He opened the door wider, but suddenly put out a hand to stop England from entering. "Wait a minute. I thought you were _allergic_ to me. You sure you want to come in here?" His voice was noticeably acidic as he said the word "allergic."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure. Just let me in. It's cold out here," England muttered, avoiding eye contact with his host and folding his arms over his chest.

America obliged and England took off his shoes at the door. "Was there anything particular you wanted to talk to me about?" The tall nation asked, eyeing his visitor suspiciously. It wasn't often England looked this distinctly uncomfortable. America was even fully dressed this time; albeit in long flannel sleep pants and an old, thin t-shirt. England shook his head silently and America lifted a brow. "Alright, then. I was just…playing Call of Duty in my living room. You wanna play?"

England shook his head. "No, thank you. I'll just watch, if you don't mind."

"That's cool, too. I don't suppose you want any decaffeinated coffee, do you? Right, didn't think so," America chuckled, leading the way to his living room. He plopped down on the floor and picked up his controller, un-pausing the game that showed on the television screen. He was playing as a soldier sneaking around a battlefield and methodically taking out enemies.

England settled himself on the couch behind America and watched him play. At first he studied the characters on the screen to see what was going on and how the gameplay worked, but once he figured the gist of the game out, he grew bored and his eyes drifted from the game to the player. It took effort not to laugh when England realized that America played video games with his tongue sticking out very slightly between his lips, which was just how he used to look when he learned to lace up his shoes. His hands worked seamlessly together, pressing buttons in combination and making complex moves even though America never looked down at them. England had never played video games and he wondered if they were fun.

So absorbed was England in his thoughts that America started to feel like someone was staring at him and turned his head to find that England actually WAS staring at him. "Dude. You alright?"

England snapped out of his stupor. "Er, yes. Sorry. Just a little tired, I suppose."

America shrugged and turned back to his game, but soon saved and turned it off. He stood up and yawned, bringing his arms up over his head and exposing the lower part of his abs. "Man, I am exhausted. I think I'm going to go on ahead to bed now." He packed up his controller and headed off towards his room. The floorboards creaked as he walked back and forth between his room and the bathroom. Ten minutes later, he returned to the living room to turn off the lights and was surprised to find England still sitting contemplatively on his couch. "Whoah, England, you still here?"

The dusty blonde stood up and faced America, chewing again on his thumbnail. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Uh, yeah, sure." America was starting to become worried about the other's unusual behavior. _Maybe he's going to interrogate me about my scones again or about his "allergies" or the like. Something must have happened. He's being totally weird. Did I pack the rechargeable batteries for my controller correctly? Maybe I should go check…_

The question that followed was the last thing England ever expected to ask and America ever expected to hear. "Can I…can I stay here tonight?"

America stared.

oOoOo

**Winter, AD 1769**

** England watched happily as America wolfed down the eggs, toast, and beans he'd prepared for brunch. Rarely did his colony show such enthusiasm toward his meals, though he couldn't imagine why. "You're really excited about this skating, aren't you?" He asked, lifting a forkful of beans to his own mouth. **

** America nodded and replied with his mouth full, giving England a lovely view of what was inside. "Yeah! It's gonna be great! You're gonna love it!"**

** "Don't talk with your mouth full," England admonished. Rolling his eyes, America shoveled in more eggs. After the brunch dishes were cleaned and put away, both males donned heavy winter gear and met at the door of the house. "Alright," England said. "Here we go!"**

** "Are your skates sharp enough? I'll sharpen them for you if you need me too," America asked, eyeing the heavy boots over England's shoulder. **

** "Don't worry about me. Off we go, now," England replied, herding the colony out the door. The pair walked through a meadow covered in partially-melted snow to the pond and stopped at the edge. It was coated in a layer of dazzling ice that caught the sunlight and threw it playfully into their eyes. England tapped a foot on the edge and pronounced it hard enough to skate on.**

** America narrowed his eyes and studied the ice suspiciously, but figured that if England thought it was safe, it must be safe. He strapped on his skates and walked carefully over to the edge of the ice. "Hurry up, Art!" He yelled over his shoulder. His voice echoed over the meadow and he marveled at how deep it had gotten.**

** After testing the edge of his skates, England clumped over beside America. "Land's sakes, Alfred, you're as tall as I am now. You better not try to hold on to me for balance on the ice. You'll send us both sprawling!"**

** America laughed and launched himself onto the ice. After a few wobbles, he steadied himself and laughed with pleasure. England had considerably more trouble, but was soon more or less comfortable on his blades. Once or twice he almost tipped over, but was caught by his companion, who chuckled at his incompetence. **

**The day wore on and America retired to the edge of the pond to snack on some of the food they had packed. He replaced his skates with heavy boots and sat on a log. "Hey, Arthur, come over here and eat something. It's time to get off the ice; the weather has gotten too warm and I'm worried about the strength of the ice."**

**Now that England had gotten the hang of skating, he was very much enjoying himself and didn't feel like stopping. "No way, Alfred. You're just worried I'll get better than you at skating. Listen to big brother and stop worrying!" He timidly hopped from one foot to the other and wondered if he could try a small jump next. **

"**Please, Arthur…" America said quietly, but decided to trust England's words. He made a sandwich and was munching on it contentedly when the sound he feared most rent the air. _CRACK._ He looked up and was horrified to see his companion in the middle of the pond, surrounded by a web of cracks extending around his feet. One of England's skates had broken through the ice and was now stuck. "Arthur! Don't move!" He cried, dropping his food and running to the edge of the ice. **

**England met America's panicked eyes right before the ice beneath him gave way and he disappeared beneath the surface of the water with a short shriek. America threw himself on his stomach and army-crawled his way over to the hole. "Arthur!" He yelled, searching through the chunks of ice for England's body. The European country had been partially sucked under the sheet of ice around the hole. If he wasn't caught now…he might never be. Realizing he had no other choice, America stripped off his jacket, shirt, and pants, held his breath, and dropped himself into the water. At first he wasn't sure if he had jumped into water or fire-it burned his body just the same. He held onto the ice with one hand and fished for England with the other. All his hand felt was water, water, water…and then a jacket! England's jacket! America grabbed on to it with all his strength and pulled. Something gave and England slammed into America's chest, knocking America's head against the ice. Head stinging, the colony pushed England out of the water and onto the ice, then pulled himself out.**

**After the frigidity of the water, the winter air felt almost warm. America pulled his clothes back on with numb fingers and then dragged England off the ice. He dropped to his knees beside him. "Arthur?" He asked, his lips too cold to properly form the words. England's lips were blue and his breathing was so shallow it was almost nonexistent. He was hypothermic, it was obvious, and he needed help NOW.**

**Cold as he was, America swung England up in his arms and set off at a run across the meadow, towards the house the two shared. **

**oOoOo**

**Back to Present Day**

England was asking to…stay the night? Where would he sleep? "Um, sure," America replied, scarcely believing what was happening. "You can stay in my bed and I'll find somewhere else to sleep."

"Your bed's big enough for two," England said quietly.

America stared again. The two hadn't slept in the same bed since…since _that_ night. What was going on?

oOoOo

_Thanks for reading! Don't forget to review if you want another chapter soon!_


	6. THAT Night, Part 1

_This chapter makes me so happy and I hope it makes you happy, too~_

_Largo-sanzo: thank you! What a compliment!_

CHAPTER SIX: _That_ Night, Pt 1

The two men were silent as they folded down the covers on America's massive bed. England, having not brought any clothes of his own, was given a large t-shirt of America's to wear to bed. England pulled it over his head with a wry smile; the shirt was emblazoned with the Beatles' logo, a band that America had adopted from England's land. It was freshly washed, but still smelled like its owner. England resisted the urge to bunch it up around his nose and inhale the aroma. _America probably already thinks I'm dotty enough._

What an understatement! _Dude. England is weirding me the heck out. I had to beg him to stay until I fell asleep the other night and here he is now, wanting to stay the night and wearing my clothes! _America wasn't sure if he was more disturbed or excited that his guest was staying over. He was sure of one thing, though. He really, really liked the way England looked in just boxers and his t-shirt. _You're killing me, England._

England noticed the strange looks America was shooting him when he thought he wasn't looking. He looked away when America started to remove his long pants, but couldn't help but peek. Being completely honest, England had always thought America was a good looking man. You know, friend to friend. Now, under the new sky of open eyes, he realized that the way he saw America's form was far more than just admiration. Those butterflies when America ran his fingers through his hair weren't from jealousy that his own hair never looked that good. The wrenching embarrassment he had felt when he saw America about to get into the shower wasn't from fear of being a bad example earlier in life. The butterflies were because England wanted to run _his_ fingers through that silky hair, too. The embarrassment was because England knew _he_ didn't look _nearly_ that good shirtless and would never impress America, ever. He wrapped his arms around his midsection and frowned, suddenly self-conscious.

After turning off the lights, America slid into bed and felt England do the same. Starlight from the multiple windows in the room made their forms distinguishable. Silence hung heavy around the two and neither could fall asleep. "Hey," America said, breaking the quiet streak. "At least I haven't kicked you yet." He chuckled.

"That's true enough," England replied, glad that the other had spoken up and killed the awkwardness. "you're awful about that. And 'hey' is not a word, dash it all. Quit using it. It makes you sound ignorant."

America rolled over to face England. "Why do you care how I sound, huh?"

"Because we spend a fair amount of time together and I don't want to be categorized as a buffoon because you say words that don't exist!"

"I don't think we can spend much time together anymore, what with you being allergic to me and all."

England rolled over, away from America. "Enough with the allergic business, alright?"

America's voice sounded surprised in England's ears. "What's this? You've decided you're not allergic after all?"

"Yes."

America rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "So I guess your symptoms went away then, huh. The flushing and lack of concentration and pounding heart and all that." His voice had grown dull, like he didn't actually want to be having this conversation.

"No."

Silence. "Is that so?" America asked, life back in his voice. "Interesting." More silence. "So, uh, you got anymore ideas about what those, er, symptoms might be from?"

"Yes," England replied, clutching his pillow tighter.

America's voice got louder and cracked a little as he said "Care to divulge this information?"

"No."

"What?" America sat up in bed. "England! You're killing me! I can't read your mind and I don't understand you. First you act like I'm a classless numbskull and now you're in my bed at one in the morning, saying cryptic things and not explaining yourself. What am I supposed to do with that, huh?"

England sat up beside him and buried his head in his hands. It had all come down to this. _How do I say this? What if he doesn't feel the same way and gets angry and kicks me out? I'm in his _bed_ for heaven's sake. I'll test him. I'll say something that he'd only understand if he's in the same situation I'm in._ "I think you and I both know what this is about," he said slowly, still staring at his hands.

America's heart, which had been thumping like he was running a race, slowed to a crawl. This could be it. This behavior…asking to sleep over…had England…had he finally realized his feelings? No. America's mind urged him not to get excited again. England had disappointed him last time. He had to hear it this time. He had to hear England say it. He wouldn't open himself up for pain like he had the last time. "Like I said, I can't read your mind," he said slowly. "Just say it."

Though his lips were moving, few coherent words came from England's mouth. "I…America…"

America was up on his knees, facing England, who was also on his knees, facing America. "Say it, England!"

England curled tight, the words absolutely burning his tongue and throat; his lungs ached with the exertion it took to hold in the flow of language crying to be released. "I…I can't…I…"

"SAY IT!" America yelled, grabbing England's hands and holding them in his own, tighter than he realized.

That one motion made all the difference. England brought his head up and looked the other man straight in the eyes. "Oh, Alfred," he choked.

Just like that, America knew. It was all he had to say. England hadn't said his human name since the night after the ice broke on the pond. With a quick motion, America pulled England into his arms and held him tightly. Surrounded by America's warmth, England breathed deeply and held him as closely as he could. He felt himself be pushed back and America's voice and breath softly on his cheek. "Arthur, love, do you really? I've waited hundreds of years for you…could it be that you really do love me back? Please tell me now; I have to know."

A small nod was all England could manage, constricted as he was. "Yes," he answered.

Everything inside America was on fire. It was a good, healthy, consuming fire that spread from his toes to the ends of his hair. As if in a dream, he followed England's voice until he found its source, soft, warm lips still trembling from the confession. England knew what was coming and was frightened, but his fears melted as America's mouth met his own. It was needy but hesitant, afraid and full of hope, barely restraining itself. England laid a hand on the side of America's face, feeling the stubble left by the day and signaling that he accepted the kiss, and that it was good. That was all the encouragement America needed to deepen the kiss from tender to passionate, gaining bold entrance beyond England's lips.

The kiss became faster, frantic, animalistic. England and America were intertwined, making up for all the time they'd lost together. England's hand wandered down America's chest and America rediscovered, with breathless awe, the smooth curve of England's back. Then the kiss softened, motivated by more than lust; apologies and forgiveness passed between their mouths without words. Tasting salt, England pulled away and ran his thumb over America's cheek until he found a stream of tears trailing down America's face. "Alfred," he said softly. "I'm sorry I made you wait so long. Honest."

America laughed quietly, sniffing and wiping his eyes at the same time. "You're here now, so it was all worth it. I hoped you'd come around in the end. I hoped every day." He fell back on the pillows, still wiping his face.

England laid his head on America's chest, allowing the events of the night to soak into him. "But I don't understand, Alfred. Why did you do it? Why did you fight me? You were my world and you banished me from it. I thought…I thought you hated me."

"Don't you get it?" America asked, surprised. "Didn't you know?"

"Know what?"

"I thought the night after the incident on the ice made my feelings obvious."

"The night after the incident on the ice? What about it?" England asked, surprised.

oOoOo

_Part two coming up soon!_


	7. THAT Night, Part 2

_America and England have such problems with communication, ne~_

_Please enjoy this chapter and don't forget to review!_

_Starry loves you guys!_

CHAPTER SEVEN: _That _Night, Pt 2

**Winter, AD 1769**

** America would have carried England across the world that evening if he'd had to. He burst through the front door, England cold and limp in his arms. He cast his eyes about wildly for a few moments before settling them on the stone fireplace in the drawing room. He laid England on the rug in front of the fireplace, then fetched a pillow and a heavy blanket from his bedroom. He gently lifted England's head, slid the pillow underneath and then covered him with the blanket. That done, he applied himself to lighting a fire as quickly and possible, adding as much wood as he could without stifling the flame. The room began to heat up and America's attention returned to England.**

** England's wet hair was stuck to his forehead and left water spots on the pillow. America realized, with a jolt, that his companion was still clad in his sodden, cold clothing. The water would halt the warming of England's body; the clothes must come off. Studying his task, America decided that a towel was needed and so fetched one. **

** The blanket was removed and the towel applied to England's head in an attempt to dry his hair as thoroughly as possible. Once that was finished, his hands crept shakily to down to the soaked jacket and shirt. The jacket was dispensed with quickly, but America hesitated before unbuttoning England's coarse green shirt, revealing milky skin underneath. In all the years America had been with England, he'd never once seen the European country shirtless. It just did not happen. A fine, fair sprinkling of hair existed between England's pectoral muscles and the sight of it stopped America cold. **

** What other secrets didn't he know? After all this time, he thought he had come to know England quite well. A little line of hair and a shiny white scar down England's ribs changed all of that. Where did the scar come from? Did it still hurt?**

** England's trousers gave America considerably more trouble. He unbuttoned them with fumbling fingers while trying not to look. For modesty's sake, he left the undergarments as they were. America surveyed his work awkwardly, then rubbed the towel wherever drops of icy water still lingered on England's flesh.**

** Once perfectly dry, England was wrapped in multiple quilts and placed close to the fireplace. Time passed, but England remained cold and his lips blue. His core temperature had dropped so low that he was not giving enough heat to warm the quilts covering him. America had been dreading this, but knew what he needed to do. He uncomfortably removed his own heavy clothing and slipped under the quilts, gasping slightly when his skin met England's icy body. Slowly he adjusted to the shock and gradually pulled England closer and closer to himself, using his own body heat to warm the space under the covers.**

** Darkness fell outside and the realization of how close and slim England was hit America hard. With all the layers of clothing he usually wore, he looked pretty sturdy. Now, vulnerable, it was obvious that he was more delicate that he wished to admit,. A fidgety ache arose in America's chest. He wanted to protect this…handsome country. He did not want to be England's "little brother." If he was a little brother, or any brother at all, he and England could never…well, their relationship would always be the way it was now.**

** Lying, holding England, America considered the enormous implications of what he was suggesting in his own mind. Breaking brotherhood ties with England…proving himself an equal…this road of thought led to only one place. A rebellion. War. Muskets, bayonets. Blood. His heart contorted with pain as he looked at England's sleeping face and understood for the first time what he would have to do. Someone would get hurt. People would die. If he succeeded, if he won a place as a country and as an equal…where would his relationship with England be once the dust settled? These traitorous thoughts would change things in ways America did not even know of yet.**

** Moisture clouded his eyes and he reached out a hand to smooth the hair off of England's forehead, savoring the slightly coarse texture of the blonde strands. At this gentle touch, England's eyes fluttered open. "A-Alfred? What happened? I'm so cold.."**

** America shushed him and hugged him tighter. "You fell through the ice. It's okay, though, I'm taking care of you."**

** "I'm sorry, Alfie."**

** "Hush, Arthur. Go back to sleep." America stroked the country's cheek until his eyes closed again and he was out. America laid with him for another hour until his temperature had risen significantly, at which point he transferred him to his own bed, then crawled in beside him again. "I'm so sorry, Arthur. For what I'm going to do to you. I never want to hurt you…but I think I'm going to have to. For me. For us. I…I don't think you'll understand for a long time. That's alright, though," he whispered, tightening his arms around England's waist. "I'll wait for you. No matter how long."**

** Immature love makes immature promises, but America immediately began to plan. He had grown stronger than most colonies, but he did not rival the major countries. _I need to be stronger. Smarter. More resourceful. I'm going to have to outmaneuver them._ He needed to chart a course of action. It could take years of training to get him ready to make his move. For now, he snuggled into England's side for what may be the last time. **

oOoOo

** England awoke the next morning to find America standing next to the bed, holding a bowl of hot soup and glowering at him. "Blimey…I feel awful," England groaned, reaching for the soup. **

** America held if out of his reach. "You scared me, England." England looked confused. "I told you not to skate on that ice, that it was thin. You almost died. I was terrified."**

** Blood sprang into England's cheeks. "I…I know. I'm sorry. I really am."**

** "You need to start listening to me," America said stonily. **

** England chuckled. "Alright, alright."**

** America moved closer, angrily. "I'm serious, England!"**

** England frowned and stopped laughing. "What's with this 'England' rubbish? You're my little brother. You call me by my human name.**

** If he'd been paying attention, he would have seen America flinch. "No," he said slowly. "I'm not."**

** "…not what?"**

** "Your little brother. I'm not your little brother."**

** England stared at America, trying to understand what he was saying. Was it just him or had America grown even taller overnight? "Of course you are," he snapped. "Don't be a dolt, Alfred."**

** "I'm America. All these beautiful lands around us…this is me. America."**

** Cold that had nothing to do with last night seeped through England's veins. "What are you on about?" He whispered weakly.**

** Setting the bowl of soup down, America sat on the side of England's bed and took his hand. "I've realized something. You, England, are the most precious person in the world to me and I would do anything for you. Anything."**

** "Of course," England said. "You're my brother."**

** America stood up and pulled himself to his full height. "No, I'm not. I am America. These lands are me."**

** Green eyes narrowed angrily and bushy eyebrows contracted. "You are having delusions of grandeur. You _are_ my brother. You are MY colony."**

** Eyes still locked, America backed up towards the door. An unspoken "not for long" hung in the air between them.**

** "You're bleeding, by the way," England pointed out. "You should wash that wound. Where did you get it?"**

** America put his hand to his head and felt a mass of clotted, dried blood covering his forehead and matting his hair. "I must have hit my head on the ice when I jumped in after you."**

** England's expression softened with guilt. "Alfred…come crawl in bed here and just rest." He held out a conciliatory hand.**

** "America," America corrected, bring angry color back to England's cheeks. "And I'm old enough to sleep in my own bed now." He turned and walked towards the door, then stopped. "I love you, England," He blurted, then ran off. **

** England sat back against his pillows. Of course America loved him. They were brothers, for heaven's sake. Weren't they? Alfred wouldn't…no. No. Alfred would never do anything to change that. This was a phase. Just a phase. **

oOoOo

** The next day England found America outside, lifting weights. "Al-, er, _America_, what are you doing?" He was perplexed. His colony usually got his exercise by roaming the hills.**

** "You know, working out and stuff," America replied cheerfully. "Gotta stay in shape!"**

** England smiled but lingered to see his colony add heavier and heavier weights. He wasn't just staying fit. He was building muscle. England turned away and the first ghost of fear of the Revolutionary War flitted across his face. **

oOoOo

**Back to Present Day**

"That was your 'obvious' signal? That wasn't obvious at all, you git!" England yelled.

America shrugged. "I thought it was. You know, my eyesight has never been the same since I hit my head on that ice. It took me a while to realize I needed glasses, though.

The frown on England's face diminished and he leaned closer to America in the darkness. "I never said thank you. So thank you for saving me."

America kissed him with a smack. "Bah. I'm happier about it than you are! But really…do you understand it now?"

"Understand what?"

"Why…why _it_ happened. The war." America and England hadn't spoken about the Revolutionary War since it ended. To speak of it now was strange.

Sadness still washed into England's heart at its mention, but the feeling was hugely lightened by the events of the night. "I think so. You knew I considered you a brother, not a love interest."

"Sort of." America replied. "I knew that I had to be bigger and better than just a colony in order to be worthy of you. You're more amazing than you realize. I had to make my own name. I couldn't force you to love me, but maybe if I loved you long enough you'd eventually catch on." He was silent for a minute. "We were meant for each other, you know."

England did not know what to say, so he leaned in and gave America a long, tender kiss. Damn git was probably right. England had never been attracted to anyone, male or female, except America. He had always gotten jealous over America spending time with other countries, though he did not know why. Something drew him to this loud, active nation. Something beyond words…something you could only identify by feel.

As he pulled away from the kiss, America sighed. He patted the bed next to himself, inviting England to snuggle under the covers. "This is gonna be the best sleep I've had in a long time. I've dreamed about this night." He grabbed England's hand and closed his eyes.

England stayed awake for a while after America drifted off to sleep. He was still processing the information of the night. Stuck between denial and elation, his heart thumped like the footfalls of a runner. Despite the nagging doubts, everything about what was going on seemed right, natural. Watching America sleep, his chest rising and falling like the sun, his lips parted slightly…it was warm and familiar, like a pleasant dream England had dreamt as a child. He could, if he wanted, reach out and touch America, reassure himself that it was real. He could wake him up and see blue eyes smiling at him. He could kiss him…feel the fullness of his lips and taste the slight saltiness of his tongue.

He could do more, if he wanted. The thought made him blush and look away. Still, his gaze returned to America's face, like it always would. America sighed in his sleep and England took that as his cue to curl into America's arms and close his eyes.

Though he still kind of wanted to know what he'd texted the other Allied countries…

oOoOo

_Don't worry. This isn't the end. There will be at least one more chapter!_

_Review and I will love you!_


	8. Maybe Forever

_Sorry it took me so long-we started having our midterms here at college!_

_Awww we have come to the end of the journey. _

_I had such fun writing this and I hope to write another one sometime soon!_

_Thanks so much for sticking by me!_

CHAPTER EIGHT: Maybe Forever

Although no rain had fallen overnight, a steamy mist rose from the ground the next morning. Squirrels' paws left prints in the dew on the grass in America's front lawn. England awoke early and rubbed his eyes sleepily in the pearly morning light. As he expected, America was still peacefully asleep beside him, hair mussed from a night's stirrings. England smiled fondly at the larger country, recalling the tingling events of the night before. He touched his lips lightly with the tip of his tongue, testing them to make sure they were still there, that they hadn't changed. They had not; they felt the same as every morning. Maybe, though, if he really concentrated, he could still taste traces of America…he gave an experimental lick and liked to think that he could.

He laid where he was for another half hour, then swung his feet out of bed and pulled himself to his full height. How unusual he felt! So light, so energetic! What to do with all of this drive? Breakfast. Yes, he would make breakfast. What's more, he would make a meal just like he and America used to share in the old days before the war. America would be so surprised.

For one who liked to eat so much, America's cabinets were surprisingly bare. England found eggs, bread, butter, and oats, then used clever substitutions for the rest of the ingredients. Once the food was on its way to becoming breakfast, he returned to the bedroom.

A brightly glowing clock showed that the time was 8:13 am. Time for America to get up. England used to be so annoyed when America jumped on him…time for payback! He angled himself just right and took a flying leap onto the lump in the bedcovers that was his newfound love interest. America let out a heavy grunting sound when England landed on his midsection. "Hey!" he said, sounding winded.

"Hey is not a word," England replied, hovering over him. "As punishment, I shall now seize your vital regions!" This took the form of tickling. America convulsed and squealed like he was dying; begging, between laughs, for England to stop. When England did not, he became aggressive, flipping England over and crawling on top of him triumphantly.

He sat there, grinning. "You've never been a wrestler, England."

"You're the cowboy. You wrestled bulls for a living. I was a pirate. I could hang you from a mast with fifty different types of knots."

This comment did not lessen America's cocky grin. "You see any ropes around here? Didn't think so." England grimaced back at him. "Now, what shall we do? What was the plan? You were going to seize my vital regions? Hah! Not if I seize yours first!" He dived towards England's neck and growled into it, eliciting startled exclamations from his victim. Kisses were brushed generously from England's chin to his chest. America's hands deftly removed England's shirt and streamed nuzzles down his stomach. England gasped with surprise at the difference in tone from last night, when America was so serious and soft. Now he was playful, his touch like a big loving Labrador.

Somehow, in the course of the next few minutes, in between kisses and laughs, all of England's clothes ended up on the floor and he was suddenly faced with a (still-clothed), poker faced America. Realizing how exposed he was, England blushed and had trouble meeting America's blue eyes. Seconds of silence went by and England grew more and more uncomfortable. "W-what are you looking at?" he asked America with a nervous chuckle.

America was all serious now. "I'm…I'm sorry, I just…don't know what to say."

"About what?"

"You."

"What about me?" England asked, starting to worry.

It was America's turn to blush now. He sat back on his heels and looked to the side. "I just…wow. I mean, I've imagined what this would be like…what you would be like…if…but now that it's happening…I didn't think you would be this beautiful…" He squeezed his eyes shut, embarrassed, then cracked one open to gauge England's reaction.

England was blown away. He looked down at himself and wrinkled his forehead, unhappy with what he saw. "You really do need those glasses, don't you?"

A dark frown entered America's face. "No! I'm serious! You're like…the most gorgeous creature I've ever seen! I can't believe you're here…with me."

As if to wipe away the frown, England reached a hand up and smoothed his thumb over the other's cheek. "Come here," he said, pulling America down next to him and covering his mouth with his own. "Hey, why am I the only one who's starkers?"

America sat up like a shot. "Did you just say 'hey?'"

England clapped a hand over his mouth. "Bollocks!" He muttered from behind his fingers. Just then, a soft blue shirt hit him in the face. America had shed it and chucked it at him. England tossed it aside and tackled its owner, pushing him down on the covers and tearing off all of the pajamas that were left on his body. He purred deep in his throat and ran his hands over America's chest. "That's better."

The two sat and looked at each other until England lowered himself onto America's chest, wrapping his arms around him. America brought his hands up around England's back and the two alternated exchanging tender kisses and breathing in sync. England could hear America's heart thumping loudly behind his ribs. What a perfect sound. The world was at peace.

Suddenly England remembered the food that was on the stove. "Great scott! I've forgotten breakfast! It'll burn!" He scrambled off of America's bed, kneeing America in the stomach on the way, and ran into the kitchen to move the food to plates.

He had just finished when the front door (which opened into the kitchen) opened and Canada bustled in. "Ah, America, I wanted to ask you about…that…um." He stopped and gulped at the sight of England, naked, holding two plates of toast and eggs.

England chuckled awkwardly. "Why, hello, Canada. It's, er, National Starkers Day at my house…just thought I'd share the, er, festivities with America…"

Canada stared at the ceiling. "Is that so, eh? W-well…is America here? I…uh…I just have a quick question…won't be long…" he mumbled.

A wicked smile crossed England's face. "He's in the bedroom," he replied, pointing towards the door. "Don't bother knocking, he's already awake."

The twin screams from America and Canada were music to England's ears.

oOoOo

America and England announced their relationship at the next World Conference. To England's surprise, it was accepted without any question. "I knew it was only a matter of time," China commented, "because of the way you two looked at each other, aru."

"Big Brother told you to go talk to him! I told you so! Why does no one ever listen to _moi?_" France teared up, pulling America to one side and England to the other. "Ah! You two are such lovebirds! It is like Paris in the spring!"

"Get off America, you bloody frog," England grumped.

Germany gave England a secretive nod from across the table, both congratulating him and thanking him for the part he'd played in helping Germany realize his feelings.

Italy stood up and cheered. "YAY! Can we have pasta to celebrate? I brought a pot! Germany said I shouldn't carry pasta pots around with me, but I just KNEW it would come in handy someday!"

Spain clapped America on the back. "Way to bring England into line! He used to be such a rogue! He had such a bad attitude! Just like this one here," he said fondly, putting his arm around Romano's shoulders.

"Stop talking, tomato bastard." Romano grumped.

While slurping spaghetti a little later, Russia smiled sadly at England. "No becoming one with Mother Russia then, da? No matter. All will be one with her in the end." England backed away from the large man slowly.

Japan bowed to the pair. "This is an admirable alliance that will serve us all well. I wish you luck in your future. Also, Hungary-san and I request a picture of the two of you." Beside him, Hungary held up a camera.

"Sure!" America yelled, pulling England into a huge embrace.

England squirmed uncomfortably. "Now wait just a minute…what do they want that picture for, anyway?"

"Too late! Say cheese!" A bright flash and Hungary and Japan scuttled away with their prize. England never saw that picture again.

"I still haven't forgotten how you broke my other Edelweiss pot, Italy," Switzerland yelled, hand on his hip holster.

Italy cocked his head to the side. "What? I only broke one pot, ve…"

"What? Then who broke the other one?"

England pulled America's sleeve, motioning towards the door before Switzerland could figure out who it was.

Later, back at England's house, America and England cuddled on the couch, America with coffee and England with tea. "You have GOT to stop drinking that beastly brew," England moaned, glaring at America's mug.

America waved away his statement. "It's the only thing that makes your scones even partially edible."

"What? You git! I taught you how to make scones! Your coca-cola scones wouldn't even exist without me!"

"Nuh-uh," America replied.

"Just think, what if I'd let France be your caretaker? You'd be making coca-cola _croissants_. Frog food. Gross."

"Maybe I like frog food."

England pulled away. "Do you now?"

"Naw," America chuckled. "Not really. My food is modeled much more after yours. Tell you what, let's spend more time at each other's houses. Let's share culture and recipes, music, movies, and art." He kissed England's cheek. "Let's support each other no matter what happens, no matter how ridiculous one of us gets. I don't ever want to fight with you again."

England snuggled back into America's side. "Yes, let's. It took me a long time to realize it, but you are…the dearest person to me." He looked away, embarrassed. "So no frogs, okay?"

America draped an arm around England, sloshing the latter's tea. "I'm here with you and I think that's where I'll stay."

"For at least the next few thousand years," England replied, closing his eyes.

"Maybe longer." America whispered.

"Maybe forever."

THE END

oOoOo

**AFTERWORD**

MEANWHILE IN FRANCE'S HOUSE

France sat back in a plushy armchair, sipping wine and generally smiling at the world. _Eet is about time that Angleterre came to his senses. Heavens, it's been, what? Two hundred years? More? My, but he is stubborn._ He picked up a file from the small table beside him. The file was labeled "TEXTS/LETTERS FROM UK."

Inside the file was a transcript of the text England had sent France and the other Allies the night after America brought over the scones. It read:

_U guyz! I just realized something! OMG! It just hit me liike lytning! Im in luv wit dat STOOPID DUMB GROSS America! Y? Ye gods, y? Not him! Any1 but him! Wut do I doo? My food sux n my weather sux n he'll nvr like me backkkkkkkkkk_

_ China he likes u. how do I get him to notice me? I red some Cosmopolitan but I didn't lern nything except how 2 do some really kewl eyeshadow. Duz America like eyeshadow? IDK! OMG! luv bleeding sux doods. Like 4 reel. I think im just gonna drink sum mor gin and watch Titanic. Bloody Jack dies n the end. Srvs him rite bcuz LUV SUX. I H8 MI LYFE. _

_ I h8 u 2, frog. I hope u die and take ur stupid tasty food and fashionable hair wit u._

France laughed and put the paper back in the file. The file was full because England had sent him a text/letter/message almost exactly like that every time he'd gotten drunk over the last hundred years. The morning after, he would always forget about it.

And, just imagine, that was only ONE of France's files full of England's drunken antics.

_Silly England,_ France thought, reaching for a baguette. _Oh, hon hon hon._

oOoOo

_YAY! Feel free to suggest ideas for a new fic._


End file.
